parting word and kiss,
From dear Rowena's lips.—
May be the last!
God knows. That when his life felt death's eclipse,
Her angel-presence would its brightness cast
And dissipate its gloom. O thus to die were bliss!

The Deserted Eyrie.

But how and where they twain could meet unseen,
Unknown! Love found the way,
The place, the hour.
Rowena with her page was wont to stray
Along the topmost dins. Here was a bower
Hemmed in by rocks, where once an eagle's nest had been.

By Eric's loyal hand a note was brought.
Sir Harold scarce could bear
To break the seal.
"To-night at nine, be at the eagle's lair;
Let Eric guide. Yours, aye, come woe, come weal."
Too slowly moved the hours with love's dear issues fraught.

They met. No eye but Heaven's the secrets knew,
That sad, sweet hour betrayed,
Their hearts nigh burst
'Twixt hope and fear. Yet now, no more afraid
To face the world and say "Yea, do your worst;
For aye, come weal, come woe, each will to each be true."

Sir Harold Sails.

Sir Harold Wynn set sail for Holy Land
With Richard, Lion-heart,
Peerless, whose fame—
There, if he might, to act a leal knight's part
And add fresh lustre to his martial name,
Wherewith to move Sir Guy and gain Rowena's hand.

Of Saxon race, Sir Harold Wynn was fair,
Noble in mien and gait,
Stalwart of frame;
In powers of mind and heart a worthy mate
For any lady. Few beside could claim
Domains so large and rich, as could with his compare.

The first knight's sword hung high in hall,
Had healed the feud of race,
By val'rous deeds.
Beneath it in the same proud resting place,
The sons fixed theirs with other warlike meeds,
To prove their martial line had known nor break nor fall.

Rowena's Lonely Vigil.

She sought her chamber in yon spectral keep
With ivy wreaths now crowned;
Whose casket rent
By Time's grim hand and strewn by fragments round,
Once held a jewel whose rare beauty lent
Its light to cheer the sailors toiling on the deep.

Her vestal lamp she nightly trimmed and fed,
A beacon light more true
Than stars above;
For darkness only made the light it threw
More bright—bless'd, too, as emblem of her love
For those who else might make Hell's caves their last lone bed.

"Hist! Hist!" They'd cry: and straight the plash of oar,
And creak cf sail were stilled;
And every ear
Was tent to catch the strains her sweet voice trilled.
Avast to gloomy thoughts and boding fear!
Alack the day when she should witch their hearts no more!

Rowena's Song.

Sea, sea,
Bounding and free,
O soothe me to sleep with thy sweet lullaby!
As when a child,
Sportive and wild,
Thy waves and I gamboll'd, thou gem-crested sea!

Sea, sea,
Laugh on in glee;
How dear to the sailor thy sweet monody!
Soul-soothing calm,
Soul-healing balm,
For hearts beating fondly for hearts on the sea!

Sea, sea,
Tempest-lashed sea!
O spare in thy fury, smite not angrily
Hearts true and brave,
Breasting thy wave,
Who love as they trust thee, thou beautiful sea!

Sea, sea,
Bring back to me
One that thou bearest to war's pageantry!
Bear him my love,
Life-lasting love,
For him and him only, then speed him to me!

Sir Harold at Acre.

So sang Rowena, from her turret bower,
Her plaintive notes each night,
In seamen's ears.
Their hearts sank deep. They long had watched her white
And care-worn cheeks; but now they knew her fears
And wept with her to see the darkling storm-clouds lower.

Meanwhile her red-cross knight was lying prone,
Sore wounded, life nigh spent,
On Acre's plains.
He'd swooned and woke to find him 'neath, a tent.
With balm a maiden soothed his throbbing veins.
No other soul came near save she a maid unknown.

Low whispers could he often hear without.
Fresh unctions were applied;
His wounds Soon healed.
Whene'er he groaned swift flew she to his side:
At other times the maiden lay concealed.
At last she brought the news of Saladin's great rout.

The Saracen Maid's Secret.

What secret spring had moved this maiden's heart
To save her nation's fee,
At risk of life?
Far rather had he died than live to know
That precious secret was to be his wife.
Too well she knew that now 'twas death from him to part!

At length the lingering weeks of healing passed
He e'en must quit for aye
Her angel tent.
"Take me. Sir knight, to be your slave alway!
O leave me not, or my poor heart is rent!"
She said, and at his feet her tender form she cast.

He bade her rise! then heard her fearful tale—
An orphan doomed to be
A lifelong slave
And serve a tyrant's lust and infamy.